


The city (is burning)

by Builder



Series: Nat on Fire [17]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alcohol, Drug Use, F/M, Gen, Hurt No Comfort, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Mission Fic, Natasha Romanov Is Not A Robot, POV Natasha Romanov, Sex, Steve Rogers & Natasha Romanov Friendship, Threats of Rape/Non-Con, Violence, yelling fire in a crowded theater
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-24
Updated: 2021-02-24
Packaged: 2021-03-15 14:13:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,724
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29685186
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Builder/pseuds/Builder
Summary: “Um.  Call my boyfriend...”  But Clint’s out of country.  No date on when he’s set to return.“I mean, no.” Nat shakes her head.  The hotel manager looks at her blankly.  “Can you call my brother?”  Steve.  Steve will know what to do.____________________________________Nat completes her mission.  But her mission nearly completes her.
Series: Nat on Fire [17]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/796122
Kudos: 13





	The city (is burning)

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on tumblr @builder051

The first step is scoring an invite to the target’s birthday party. He’s a bigwig turning 50, so it’s definitely a big deal. As the CEO of the largest hotel chain in New York, the grand bash celebrating him will be held at teh original historic Gorman Suites, the one that’s been in his family for years, and not one of the hastily erected copies with modern fake marble columns with too many flowers to be truly corinthian. 

It turns out that taking down Ronald Gorman is a multi-step process, and not Nat’s favorite mission she’s ever had. She spends six weeks in strappy heels and a tight blouse skulking around the corporate office carrying a clipboard. If anyone asks, she’s an intern, and she’ll pay up with a Venti drink if whoever’s asking won’t tell that she’s forgotten Mr. Gorman’s order. A few fake tears and the deal is sealed, and she’s only had to do it once. 

At the end of the month and a half, Nat’s fairly sure she’s in the boss’s good books, though he’s convinced her name is Alex and that her soul purpose is to be the cleavage hanging over his steaming cup of coffee. It takes until the night of the party to be sure of things, but eventually she gets a wink and a once-over before Gorman jerks his thumb toward a pamphlet on cocktails and cakes. 

“You showing up, Alex?” he asks, leering in a way that means Nat doesn’t really have a choice. Not that she did in the first place, anyway. “It’s gonna be fun.”

_Fun for you_ , Nat thinks. But she forces a smile and says, “Sure. Definitely wouldn’t want to miss it.”

“And don’t worry about carrying any trays.” Gorman stares at the top button of her blouse. “There will be catering staff to do that.”

“Mm.” Nat nods. She sets down Gorman’s coffee, then tosses the cardboard caddy in the garbage. 

“You understand the dress code, right?” Gorman looks Nat up and down again. “Not that I’d say no to seeing you again in that...” he chuckles.

Nat knew the event was black tie even before the invitations were printed, but she lets Gorman explain his version of formal female attire. 

“Long dresses,” he says. “But strapless is alright. Or small straps. Anything too long in the sleeve is... not what we’re going for. This will be a large publicity event, you know.” He gives another ferocious grin.

Nat does her best to smile and nod. She’s honored to be included. Well, Alex is, anyway.

“Do you have something?” Gorman asks, his expression softening. He shifts in his seat and pulls out a wallet from the back pocket of his trousers. “You wear the same clothes to work every day. Not that I mind, but... Tonight’s something special.

Gorman opens the wallet and starts counting 100 dollar bills onto the desktop. He hits seven bills, then tightens the stack and hands it to Nat. “Go get something nice”, he instructs. “And take the rest of the day off”

Nat’s more than happy to leave the office and strut through the front door. If all goes well tonight, she’ll never have to return.

Nat has plenty of dresses that will fit the bill for a formal party. Or SHIELD does, at least. She fingers the cash in her skirt pocket and wonders what the hell to do with it. Or what she won’t do with it.

First she hands over $100 to a homeless man sitting outside a CVS on the corner. Then she pops inside for the essentials of unadulterated red dextromethorphan hydrobromate, blue diphenhydramine, and a bag of chocolate doughnuts. On her way out she changes her mind and drops the doughnuts into the homeless man’s lap along with the change from the second hundred.

Nat then rounds the corner into the alley behind the store and navigates her way around a series of dumpsters. She’s just headed to the next neighborhood over, but it’s important that she not be seen traveling the long way around. 

When she pops out on the street, Nat moves quickly and with purpose, knowing just where to go. She’s been to the strip before, but never in daylight. She usually uses the cover of dusk and a good set of sweats to cover her pallor and general foreignness to the area. 

She considers it a good thing that her dealer recognizes her by her face and takes but a paltry glance at her outfit. When his ‘lookin’ good’ is met with a grunt, he backs off and gets on with presenting his product. He knows she likes the good stuff, unadulterated with low-grade stuff or powdered milk or whatever’s going around these days. When he produces the small plastic baggies, Nat opens one and sniffs, then nods and hands over four of her last five hundreds. She knows she’s overpaid for the coke, but she’d rather not haggle. And hell, she’s feeling generous.

Nat picks up her car from the parking garage and breaks the final bill at the toll station. The collector gasps and sputters and has a hard time making change, but Nat waits patiently. Now regretting leaving the doughnuts behind, she swings immediately from the garage exit line into the Starbucks drive-thru and grabs a mocha and half the bakery section, which she breaks into pieces and shoves into her mouth bit by bit as she speeds across town to her dingy apartment. 

Leaving the wrappers and empty cup in the footwell of the passenger side, Nat hightails it to the front door, her hands shaking and rattling her keys as she unlocks it. Wasting no time, she drops her bag and undoes the waistband of her skirt, now tight across her swollen belly. The garment hits the ground rattling with a pocket full of coins, sounding the alert of what Nat’s about to do. 

She runs to the bathroom as if time’s of the essence and jams half her hand down her throat. The coffee comes up in a thin creamy wave, but the baked goods stay stubbornly down, a heavy paste at the pit of Nat’s stomach. She spits and withdraws her fingers. She should’ve known better. 

After guzzling a few mouthfuls of water straight from the tap, she forces out half a muffin and some melted chocolate from the cookie. Ferociously calculating the calories, Nat presses on her stomach, then tucks it in, pulling it inward and into the bottom of her ribcage. If the Bolshoi taught her anything... Nat shakes her head, then starts to wash up. 

Once her fingernails are clean, she takes the bag from CVS, digging absently in it as she unfolds the doors to her tiny closet. She currently has three dresses in there on loan from SHIELD, quite comically in red, white, and blue. Nat’s been wearing blue contacts, so she nabs the sapphire sequined number and tosses it onto the bed to wait while she dopes up and strips.

With only two hours before she needs to be at the party, there’s no time for a good trip. She’ll save that for when she gets home, a reward for good behavior and a job well done. What she can afford, though, is enough to get her to first plateau. A little gregarious, just without the telltale stench of vodka or weed.

Nat runs her tongue over her teeth after she swallows the red juice, imagining the fiery warmth invading her veins as she pulls off her clothes and makes goosebumps rise on her arms and legs. Bemoaning slightly the need to abandon her push-up bra, Nat goes completely. nude before stepping into the gown. Pantylines are not allowed. Plus, she’ll have a secret advantage if she needs it in order to lure the Gorman into a room alone.

Nat breathes slowly and heavily as she chooses a pair of open-toed silver heels with soft suede soles. They’re dance shoes, if you get particular like Fury did when she put them on her equipment bill. But Nat considers them mission shoes. They’re silent. And they don’t slip.

Satisfied with her general appearance, and beginning to feel a bit calmer and more relaxed, Nat runs a brush through her hair and starts refreshing her makeup. She doesn’t want to look too over the top. Plus, the tremor from earlier has returned full-force.

When she’s done, Nat finds the skirt she shed back in the apartment’s minuscule living space and digs the coke out of the pocket. She’s had her downer, and it made her feel good. Now time for the upper.

Nat licks her finger and coats it in the white powder, then sticks it up her nose and inhales sharply. The effect is immediate, and her brain snaps to attention. She takes up a tiny handbag that’s all white leather and silver studs and packs up her smallest gun, then the rest of the coke. Then she digs in the coffee can on the shelf beside the sink and pulls out two one dollar bills. She still has a fifty left from Gorman’s gift, but best to let him think she spent all of it.

“Ok...” Nat mutters, giving her shadow a once-over because she doesn’t care to check her reflection. She has everything she needs. Now for the final act.

Back in the car, Nat tries the yogic breathing Bruce has tried to teach her. He’s tried to teach the whole team, but Steve’s the only one he’s made any progress with. Nat still has granules of cocaine stuck to the insides of her nostril, and the sharp knife of overperception the drug gives her is beginning to set in, yogic breathing be damned.

When she pulls up to the swanky hotel, a black-suited valet approaches and offers to take her keys. Nat has to agree, though what she should’ve done is pull around back and park in the staff lot in case of emergency and the need for. a quick getaway. 

Oh well. There other means of escape, and she’s not afraid to pull them out and put them to use if she has to.

When Nat walks inside, her shoes make no sound on the marble floor. She may as well be invisible, were it not for her gleaming blue silhouette. Heads turn as she approaches the bar, but Nat only has eyes for one man.

“Alex,” Gorman says, returning the favor and drinking her in with a thirsty gaze. “So nice to see you.”

“And you.” Nat replies. “Happy Birthday.”

“Thank you, Alex.” Gorman watches Nat’s breasts move as she breathes, and does nothing to mask what he’s doing. She wonders how much he’s had to drink already. How many other women he’s oogled. Is she but the next in line, or is she somehow special?

“I got you a gift,” Nat says, laying on spontaneity to see if she can shake him, perhaps start to break him. “But you’ll have to wait till later to see it.”

Nat bites her lip and looks at the floor, trying to take on the appearance of an office intern caught seducing the big boss for the first time. Because for all he knows, she is. 

“Oh, ho, ho,” Gorman laughs, plopping back down on his bar stool, which is the perfect height for his feet to barely touch the ground and for his tuxedo pants to bunch obscenely around his crotch. 

Nat likes what she sees. Well, she hates it, but it’s good for the mission. Puts her further along than she expected.

“Why bit now?” Gorman asks with a positively childish pout. Then he leans closer, and Nat smells the alcohol on his breath. “I don’t think the guests would miss us too badly.”

“Oh, but what about the cake?” Nat eyes the white creme and dark chocolate monstrosity on display on a table in the center of the room, In truth, it’s about the last thing she wants, but a wide-eyed, straight-from-college office girl would certainly be wooed as much by cocoa and sugar as by a mildly attractive silver fox that had had but a possibility of becoming a sugar daddy. 

“It’s not going anywhere,” Gorman laughs. “But--here.” He stands again and offers Nat his bar stool, who has no choice but to accept. The cushioned seat in unnaturally warm, and so is his hand on the small of her back. 

“Let me buy you a drink,” Gorman says. “It’s only fair, right?” He winks at Nat, and disgust brings a bitter taste to the back of her mouth.

“Sure...” Nat hopes it doesn’t come out as a sigh, but Gorman isn’t listening. He’s busy flagging down the barkeep and ordering Nat something fruity and obviously feminine whilst also motioning for a refill on his own whiskey neat.

Nat watches carefully as he takes the glass the barkeep hands him, glad for her coke powered senses that ensure all she’s getting is raspberry vodka, sour mix, and passionfruit pulp--whatever that makes. Nat’s out of practice with her cocktails. A diet of vodka straight from the bottle has a tendency to do that to people. 

“Thanks,” Nat says, sipping the drink delicately and finding that it’s not horrible. Nowhere near the alcohol concentration she’s used to, but the drink puts a pleasant buzz on her tongue as she does her best not to chug it. 

Gorman seems to be having the same problem. He keeps lifting his glass to his lips, drinking, then realizing he just did that, and putting it down again. He empties his glass quicker than Nat does, then stands there, wolfishly breathing down the back of her neck. 

Ok, Nat thinks. Time to move. She daintily finishes her drink, well, most of it. She leaves a last sip with the floaty yellow dregs of fruit, mostly so she doesn’t get the seeds stuck in her teeth and find herself semi-distracted all night. It’s not like she ca’t take it, but... Better be safe.

After placing her nearly-empty glass beside Gorman’s, Nat reaches carefully into her bag for the first pre-filled syringe. She flicks it between her fingers, removes the cap, jabs the needle into Gorman’s fleshy thigh through his trousers, dispenses the fluid, then recaps and returns the empty shell to the lining of the handbag. It all takes place in the span of two seconds, and Gorman, who seems to feel nothing lower than his nuts, interprets the gesture just as Nat hopes he will.

“Oh, don’t tip him, Alex.” Gorman pulls a twenty from his pocket and drops it over the edge of the bar. “Not your job.” He lifts his hand and whispers the next bit. “And service isn’t even that good. Ha.”

“What do you say I, uh, make it up to you?” Nat asks. “For your special day, and all.” She stands up, forcing him to take a step backward and realize he’s swaying on his feet.

“Oh, yes, that’d be lovely...” Gorman hums in a truly undignified manner. But then he looks more earnestly at Nat, his face gone pale and slick with sweat. “If you’d just excuse me a moment first, though, Al--”

His hand goes belatedly to his mouth, and the last one or two glasses of whiskey come splashing up all over the floor and his shiny black shoes. A nip of it catches the front of his white shirt and stains it telltale yellow-brown.

“Oh god.” Nat pretends to be shocked and reaches for Gorman’s hand as he scrabbles for balance. “Sit down?” she offers, though she actively steers him away from his bar stool. “Or we should probably get you somewhere private. Right away.”

“Yes, Alex. I think that would do...” Gorman suppresses another retch.

Nat puts his arm over her shoulder and helps him toward the elevator. A couple of people stop and stare, but Nat’s charming “going to help him change his tie,” and “Oh, it’s in my job description, don’t worry,” let them pass with no trouble. It’s ridiculous, Nat thinks, the way things go at places like this. The culture that blatantly lets Gorman get away with what he does is now letting Nat get away with what she does.

Nat administers the second syringe in the elevator because she takes pity on whomever would have to clean up after this little episode. Elevators have cameras, so she’ll have to be careful, but they also shouldn’t have to be mopped of alcoholic vomit after the fact. The drug she gives him this time is an antidote to the emetic, plus a muscle relaxer strong enough to bring an elephant to its knees. So Gorman won’t be puking, but he’ll still be a stumbling drunk.

After administering the contents of the syringe into the side of Gorman’s ribcage as she ostensibly dug in her bag for a tissue to use to wipe his mouth, Nat digs her hands into the pressure points along Gorman’s spine to keep him falling on his face. It’s not a long trip down the hall to the suite he’s taken for his personal use. Everyone knows which rooms the family keeps open just for themselves. Plus, hacking the computers to see everything from the invite list to the map of the grounds had been a cakewalk in terms of computer security back at the office.

Nat doubts the door to the suite is locked, but she uses her mock-up key card anyway, just in case any video footage is under review later. She didn’t enter by force. Didn’t wander in. She even says, “Thanks for giving me the key, boss.” before navigating them both inside.

Now that they’re away from the eyes of others, Nat has surprisingly little to do. Her instructions are to take him out, and the final syringe in her bag will do just that. She doesn’t have a burning desire to discuss his crimes with him, make him come clean about anything, whether it be the money laundering, the HYDRA association, or the fucking of anyone female, ranking roughly from mailroom clerk to CFO. If there were any women that high up, that is. 

To put it briefly, Nat’s more than ready to have this job done, and so she ends it. She drops Gorman on the floor between the living space and kitchenette, steps over him in as wide a stance as her dress will allow, and uncaps the syringe in his full and unadulterated view. Then she sticks him in the side of the neck.

The muscle relaxer keeps Gorman from wiggling away, but he blubbers and huffs for roughly a minute before just biting it and dying. When he does, Nat finally does pull that tissue from her purse and uses it to yank the syringe out of Gorman’s skin before capping it and throwing it back into the bag.

“Ok,” she whispers. Now. How to get out? She’s been seen. Greeted. Who’s she kidding? Nat already knows. She just hates what she’s about to have to do.

The lie is... a hard line to draw. For tonight, it’s a lie. She’ll be framing a dead man for a crime that never happened. But it’ll never be investigated in the end, so besides breakroom chatter, Nat doesn’t suppose it’ll really be a wrong committed. And the man she’ll be framing will be guilty of doing such a thing in the past, and not having been caught. It’s this bit of knowledge that keeps Nat thinking that her actions are on the white side of grey, even though they start to stray into the depths of the black.

Nat hikes up her long skirt, glad in a utilitarian way that she doesn’t have underwear to deal with. She uses her thumbnail to dig into the pale skin of her thigh just to the side of her crotch and draw a deep, angry red scrape. She pulls up skin. Makes herself bleed. Then she dips Gorman’s fingertip into the trail of crimson, leaving a mark of transfer on him. 

That’ll do for an I-saw-it-I-swear DNA test, if it’s even important. Now for leaving Gorman’s mark on her... Nat looks down at the man, taking in the foam of death lining his lips. It’s not seminal fluid, but it’s thick and white and disgusting. Nat dips her finger into Gorman’s mouth and susses out mucousy salivary yuck, then applies it to herself.

Nat straightens up and brings her legs together, immediately feeling ‘down there’ be obviously wet and stuck together. She feels sick and absolutely disgusting. Nat wipes her damp fingers on the carpet. Then she takes a breath, opens her mouth, and begins to scream.

Someone’s on the other side of the door before she gets there, and she hysterically throws herself on the maid’s shoulder. “He attacked me,” Nat whines. “He raped me...”

Nat refuses to go back to the party. She’s done with the Gorman family and the entire organization. The maid speaks to Nat in mostly Spanish, but says comforting things as she furiously dials the telephone with her tongue between her teeth. Nat gives her carefully edited versions of the phone number for the rape crisis center hotline, making sure she’ll keep getting the same busy signal until she decides to give up.

The hotel manager offers to call the cops, but keeps glancing at the party in the cocktail lounge, which is still in full swing even without the most honorable guest. 

“No,” Nat says. “Um. Call my boyfriend...” But Clint’s out of country. No date on when he’s set to return.

“I mean, no.” Nat shakes her head. The manager looks at her blankly. “Can you call my brother?” Steve. Steve will know what to do. 

Nat recites his number, watches the manager dial, then waits with bated breath. “Ok,” The manager says into the receiver. He says some words Nat doesn’t quite hear. Then “Ok.” 

Nat doesn’t know what to expect when the manager crosses the room to talk to her again. But he gives her a smile and says, “Don’t worry. He’s coming to pick you up.”

Nat nods. “Ok. Thanks.” She has a lot of feelings swirling inside of her. But for now, worry isn’t one of them.


End file.
